


For the Love of Money

by BlazingBeast20, EdgeHedgeShads



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Espio Loves Money, Fetish, Mobius Noir, Money, Money Fetish, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Smut, crack smut, don't tell anyone, i wrote this at 3am, it's a bit weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27247354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazingBeast20/pseuds/BlazingBeast20, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgeHedgeShads/pseuds/EdgeHedgeShads
Summary: Espio loves his bar, because it makes money and he really loves his money. A lot. So much so, I wouldn't accept change from him. Here's why.
Relationships: Espio the Chameleon/ Dollar Bill, Espio the Chameleon/Tip Jar
Kudos: 3
Collections: Case File Collection





	For the Love of Money

**Author's Note:**

> We also have a weird-ass discord attached to the Mobius Noir fic.
> 
> https://discord.gg/QgS9W9Q

**FOR THE LOVE OF MONEY**

_a Mobius Noir Oneshot_

It's the moment he's been waiting for all day;  _ Rouge's _ has closed up for the night. Sticky tables lay cleared of glasses and coasters, the floor has been coated in a layer of sawdust to absorb the spills, body fluid and odors. The namesake of the business has retired to bed with the giddiness of a tipsy patron, leaving Espio alone to count the till and tally up profits. A moment of peace in a life otherwise dominated by rowdy drunks and inebriated brawlers, of the tribulations of a certain detective's life whenever he collapsed on the bar in a stupor, of keeping Rouge safe if anyone got handsy.

It's been a fortuitous night though. The register is full of shrapnel and dollar bills. The drinks were perfectly measured - the chameleon is a stickler for earning his dimes and cents for every drop - and Rouge was the enticing belle they needed to rake the small change from unsuspecting city boys looking for an easy skirt. Everyone in Lower Westside knows the bat only puts out for one jackal, but boys from the Western Centre could be easily fooled into spending their cash before Knuckles manhandled their intoxicated asses across the threshold. Rouge always made a scene of disgust at his brutishness too, just for appearances.

_ If they think they have a chance, they'll come back with their next cheque. Morons. _

Once upon a time, the bartender felt nauseated using his friend to earn more money, but the Second World War tore through businesses without remorse not too many years prior. Had he not had Rouge to flash her assets and entice the men to dig deeper, they'd have been homeless and starving within a year. Nowadays it was the entire business model, minus the regulars; Detective Shadow hardly counted, with a tab longer than he was tall, but the Jackal Squad would stop in periodically to celebrate large deals or blow off some steam. They're loud but spend lots of money keeping Rouge's attention, even knowing she's taken by Gray, the old dog that keeps them in check. Espio would be a fool to turn away their business and he's no idiot.

It made the silence more enjoyable. Espio breathes in deeply, able to ignore the less pleasant smells below the sawdust masking from years of practice. Focused instead on the empty bar and solitude, reptilian eyes turn back to the money he'd paused counting with an intensity uncommon to the chameleon. He's usually well mannered and benign to deal with, temper muted beneath self-assurance. Since becoming proprietor of  _ Rouge's  _ though, he's come to notice something very peculiar. A sensation he's not felt before stirring in his groin when left alone with money and his fingers itch not to count the day's spoils, but  _ feel it. _

Aware it's not normal, Espio scoffs at his desire and closes the till half-counted. He can count it tomorrow, when Rouge wakes. There's never any feelings when someone else is present. Feeling unusually hot under the collar, he grabs the lantern and tip jar then heads to the patron washrooms for a breather. Rubbing cold water on the back of his neck, Espio shudders involuntarily before catching his flickering reflection in the cracked mirror above. Startled his skin flickers, matching the dark tile behind him for a moment before he slowly fades back to normal, feeling stupid and anxious.

_ I won't sleep like this… What's wrong with me? _

The desire to hold money, to fondle dollar bills and to skim coins with his fingertips, comes back burning in his face and abdomen. Espio gasps and shudders in surprise, clawed fingers clutching the ceramic as he struggles to regain composure. The chameleon feels weak in the knees and physically irritated, but even as he recognises the heat as the same as earlier, he doesn't understand. Money doesn't make people feel hot and weak, or his patrons would struggle to walk in the establishment as well as out of it. It's to exchange for goods and services, not a damned drug.

Another shudder and Espio flushes red, pressing his palm to the tapered penile tip now peeking out of its usually infallible pouch. Now he knows for sure what he's feeling. _Aroused?!_ The realisation doesn't stem the confusion or embarrassment but instead fuels it, a whimper slipping past dry lips as his sensitive tip gets compressed further within its confines. The startled chameleon has never been sexually attracted to any Mobian of either gender or any species. Rouge was hardly subtle with her attempts to seduce him either, but he'd just felt nothing in response and didn't want to lead her on. He'd been strangely happy when she snuck upstairs to bed the old dog knowing he'd likely appreciate the attention Espio could not.

_ I thought it was being raised by humans, not knowing the cues… So why money? Why now? _

He doesn't have an answer. Thinking of money again only makes his problem more prominent. Now getting desperate for the unfamiliar sensation to end, Espio unzips his pants and pulls out his cock. It doesn't look like usual, seeming thicker, longer, hotter to the touch and unnaturally firm. It's also oversensitive; his grip is enough to send a shockwave of pleasure through his body and draw a groan from the barkeeper, a rush of testosterone so potent his dick throbs in response. In both surprise and overstimulation Espio drops his rod and lets it hang from his open fly, staring at the organ with wide eyes and huffed breaths.

A part of the purple chameleon craves more, driving a shaking hand to return to the pinkish flesh. A tight grip sends fire up his cock and straight into the heavy balls finally slipping free of his sheath. The cool air on his usually sequestered flesh is as intoxicating as the act itself and Espio has to pause. Gripping the sink, shaking hand grasping blindly for purchase, it knocks against the precariously balanced tip jar and sends it toppling to the tiles. He barely manages to catch the falling jar, cinching it tightly as he releases a sigh of relief and straightens, but then he looks down and his body pulses with need.

The jar is full of coins of all denominations, a few bills curled like cigars in between. A fruitful night garnered good tips and tonight was no different, except Espio has found himself alone in the restroom with it, cock hanging out and dripping precum at the sight of it all. The naive Chaotic suddenly feels ravenous, but not for sustenance. Unable to resist any longer, he grabs the lantern and takes the stairs swiftly, not bothering to refasten his pants, tip jar held tightly to his chest.

Upon entering his room, Espio shuts the door and to be safe, bolts it. He doesn't want Rouge walking in on something this strange. With that done, he places the jar on the bedside table and the lantern on his desk, then wastes no time tripping his suit. He's entirely naked as he crawls into bed and retrieves the jar from the nightstand, then… sits. He's still rock hard, aching for release, but Espio has no idea what to do. Money masturbation wasn't exactly a topic bantered across the bar, let alone the deed itself sans currency.

_ This is asinine. What am I doing? _

He almost puts the jar down and rolls over.  _ It's just a side effect of tiredness,  _ he tells himself with rapidly deepening disappointment. As if to confirm this idea, his cock softens slightly as well. A self-depreciating sigh and a rough rub of his face, the barkeeper leans to place the jar on the nightstand but as he does so, the coins within  _ clink  _ together. The heat that shoots back into his rehardening rod is undeniable, as is the shudder of bliss through his thighs and balls. It's a true desire for the currency and as fast as he'd been ready to disregard the prospect, Espio wrenches the jar back into his lap and plunges his hand inside.

Immediately, he's overcome with indescribable bliss. Euphoria floods his veins and numbs his thoughts, an injection of pleasure and sensation focused primarily in his groin and balls; his dick pulses and dribbles pre onto the tip jar, his sac constricting in pleasure. Every shift of his fingers within the coins adds another layer of arousal until he can't keep whimpers and whines of need inside. Scooting down the mattress Espio draws the jar to his chest and curls around it, his face turned into a pillow to muffle groans and gasps of pleasure whenever the coins elicit their tinkling music, deaf to the world beyond his bubble of unexpected joy.

Purple hips buck erratically into the side of the jar but it does little to pleasure the chameleon further. The glass is cold and unyielding, dulling the sensations to a sharp chill that sends less erotic shivers through his body. Frustrated at the lack of release and desperate for more sensation, Espio scrabbles frantically inside the jar for more of the beautiful sounds. Bare fingers brush a coiled dollar bill and he freezes, taken aback by the different texture, but barely a second passes before the writhing Chaotic has snatched it from the jar and roughly coiled the worn note around his girth.

The paper is rough and uncomfortable to begin with, but soon coated with thick precum and its user aware it's not simply a paper tube, Espio finds pumping his engorged cock with the dollar bill is infinitely erotic. In minutes, with a hand still splayed inside the jar and his tail curled tightly around the glass, a usually stoic bartender screams open-mouthed into a pillow when his first ever orgasm crashes down. Hot, sticky seed shoots from his throbbing cock in reams, coating the glass jar and the now stationary bill as Espio thrusts erratically into his makeshift sex toy.

Shuddering and whimpering with every shockwave as the pleasure subsides, he goes limp. Exhausted, his bed soaked with years of pent up desire and hand still buried within the day's tips, Espio passes out for the best sleep he's had since his Owner passed.

_ Thank Chaos I locked the door... _


End file.
